Human

one

Across the room, the blonde man catches Tommy's gaze.

Fuck.

He's been staring at him too long over the rim of his beer bottle. It isn't totally Tommy's fault—the man honest-to-God radiates confidence, Jesus. The people crowded around him—two guys and three girls—look like they're basking in it, hanging on to his every word. When the man throws his head back and laughs—twice so far while Tommy quietly watches—they laugh along like it's a reflex.

And then oh dear sweet baby Jesus because the man's looking back now, lips curving into a half-crescent, and Tommy's nearly shitting himself. And that's before he detaches from his fan club and walks over.

"Hey," the man rumbles, smiling this stupid grin. God, Tommy wants to punch it off. Blonde hair, blue eyes, built like a brick shithouse—the guy looks like Captain fucking America.

"Hi," Tommy returns, tapping a nervous finger against his beer bottle. He's blushing. Christ, he's blushing like a damn Victorian lady. It's past pathetic.

"Saw you looking," Captain America grins, taking a quick swig from the bottle in his hand. Tommy tries not to follow the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. He's not entirely sure it works.

"I wasn't—"

"S'okay," the other man interrupts, waving a hand. "What's your name?"

"Uh, Tommy. Tommy Gold." Thank God he doesn't stutter, because holy shit, this guy.

"Jake Miller," the other boy says, reaching the beer bottle-free hand out towards him. The rough callouses on his hand make Tommy's chest collapse. It isn't quite as painful as he'd imagined. "Pleased to meet you."